14. Old Acquaintances #2
The hall gave them no true privacy. Mrs. Bennet’s drawing room lay a few steps away, the front door stood within sight, and a maid with a dusting cloth had frozen near the stairs with the guilty stillness of a servant who wished she had chosen another moment to polish the banister.
Darcy did not trust himself to speak where anyone might hear him.
He walked toward the side door that opened upon a small gravel sweep and stopped when the air struck his face.
Wickham followed.
Outside, Longbourn looked offensively peaceful. Sunlight lay upon the worn stone step. A bee worried at the late flowers in a pot near the wall. Somewhere beyond the shrubbery, a younger girl laughed, unaware that her future had just been dragged into danger by the very man standing before him.
Darcy snapped, “What are you doing here?”
Wickham’s brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“With this family.”
“I am a clerk in Mr. Philips’s office. Mr. Philips is Mrs. Bennet’s brother. I call here often.”
“You expect me to believe chance brought you to Longbourn?”
Wickham stared at him, and for the first time his confusion looked too unguarded to be comfortable. “Yes, because it did.”
“How did you know of my attachment to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
“What?”
“Do not insult me with ignorance.”
Wickham’s face altered now, but not into guilt as expected, but impatience.
“Darcy, I have no notion what accusation you have constructed, but if this concerns Miss Elizabeth Bennet, then I assure you I knew nothing of any attachment. I did not even know you were in Hertfordshire until you stood up in that drawing room.”
“You received my letter.”
“I received a letter,” Wickham said. “A remarkably threatening one with no useful explanation in it.”
Darcy took one step nearer. “No useful explanation?”
“It warned me from Miss Darcy, whom I have not seen since she was a child. It spoke of Ramsgate, where I have not been. It threatened consequences if I communicated with a young lady I have had no intention of addressing in any manner at all. I confess I found it baffling.”
“Do not speak her name.”
Wickham’s mouth shut.
“You are not worthy to use it.”
Color rose in Wickham’s face, but he mastered himself with visible effort. “Then I will not. But you are wrong if you imagine I have any designs upon your sister.”
“My sister was within an hour of being taken to a wedding while I was absent.”
Wickham recoiled. “What?”
“To you.”
“To me?”
The incredulity in his tone enraged Darcy more than denial would have done.
“You will not pretend innocence.”
“I am not pretending anything. I am courting Miss Lydia Bennet.”
Darcy gave a short, humorless laugh. “That will end when this family learns what you are.”
Wickham’s jaw stiffened. “And what am I?”
“A reprobate and a spendthrift. A man who has lived for years upon charm, falsehood, and every advantage my father’s generosity placed within reach.”
Several words gathered in Wickham’s face before he discarded them. When he answered, his voice was lower. “I have not lived well. I will not claim otherwise. I was idle, vain, and foolish with money. Worse than foolish at times. But I have been working to become a better man.”
“Since when? This summer?”
Wickham looked at him sharply. “What is that meant to imply?”
“You know precisely what it implies.”
“No, I do not. I have seen no one from your circle in years, except you now. I have been occupied with my studies and with Mr. Philips’s business.”
Darcy laughed again, unable to help it. “Your studies.”
“Yes. The law. You may despise the effort if you like, but it has occupied my days rather more effectively than old sins did.”
Georgiana’s account rose before him with cruel clarity: the secret letters, the growing attachment, her confidence that George intended marriage, Mrs. Younge’s encouragement, the packed trunks awaiting departure.
Too many particulars. Too many details no frightened girl could have invented.
Whatever innocence Wickham now assumed, Darcy would not purchase it at the price of doubting his sister.
“So, you were not in Ramsgate this summer?”
“No.”
“Convenient.”
“I remained in Surrey through much of June. I came to Hertfordshire in July. Mr. Philips can attest it, as can the gentleman with whom I lodged while preparing for the position.”
“Then there is an entire month for which you give no accounting.” Darcy could have pursued the matter.
Richard would gladly have ridden to Surrey, questioned servants, or sought out the gentleman Wickham claimed as a witness.
Yet every instinct revolted against the idea.
To investigate was to admit the possibility that Georgiana had mistaken the man she believed she loved.
She had already suffered enough. He would not add disbelief to her humiliation.
He would not lower himself to give credence to Wickham’s lies.
Wickham spread his hands. “Because I did not imagine I would be required to produce a record of every mile traveled for your satisfaction.”
“You will produce one now.”
“I owe you many debts, Darcy, but I do not owe you my obedience.”
Darcy’s restraint nearly failed him. He could see Wickham as he had been at Ramsgate without ever having seen him there: smiling, plausible, cruelly patient with Georgiana’s fears, aided by Mrs. Younge’s whispers and his sister’s innocence.
The picture was so vivid that no denial could dislodge it.
Georgiana had described too many particulars for innocence to explain them away.
Whatever Wickham’s performance, Darcy would not betray his sister by doubting her now.
“Stay away from the Bennets.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You refuse?”
“I refuse to abandon Miss Lydia because you have decided I am guilty of some plot I do not understand. If you have proof, bring it. If you have questions, ask them like a gentleman. But I will not let you walk into Longbourn and destroy my future with a word because you once had the right to think badly of me.”
“You gave me that right.”
“Yes.” Wickham’s throat moved. “I did. I will answer for what I have done. I will not answer for what I have not.”
“Pretty distinctions from a man who has made evasion into an art.”
Wickham flinched, then drew himself up. “Think what you like. I cannot prevent it. But Miss Lydia’s family knows my situation. Mr. Bennet knows I mean to wait. Mr. Philips knows my work. I have hidden nothing here.”
“You have hidden yourself.”
“No. I have begun again. If you know the man you believe guilty, tell me his name.”
Darcy scowled. “Do not attempt to deceive me. You know very well of whom I speak!”
The door behind them opened a little, then closed quickly.
Someone had thought better of intruding.
Elizabeth, perhaps. The possibility struck Darcy harder than he welcomed.
Elizabeth would ask. Elizabeth would defend the man if she believed him injured.
Elizabeth, who prided herself upon judging character, had likely already judged Wickham and found him worthy.
The thought sharpened his voice.
“This is not over.”
Wickham’s expression hardened. “I did not suppose it would be.”
“I will protect those I love, and all those connected to them.”
“As will I.”
The answer was unexpected enough to hold Darcy in place for one more second.
Then he stepped past Wickham and into the hall. The maid had vanished. The drawing room door stood open, and within it he heard Mrs. Bennet’s anxious whispering, Lydia’s raised question, Jane Bennet’s attempt at soothing, and Elizabeth saying his name.
He could not go back in.
Not yet.
If he saw Elizabeth now, with concern in her eyes and Wickham’s name upon her lips, he might say everything. Or worse, say enough to wound without convincing.
Darcy took up his hat and gloves from the hall table.
The housekeeper appeared, startled. “Mr. Darcy?”
“Inform Mrs. Bennet I was called away on urgent business. I beg her pardon.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he crossed the yard, two stable lads ceased their conversation when he approached.
One tipped his cap with exaggerated respect, but the other’s eyes drifted toward the front windows of Longbourn before settling upon Mr. Wickham’s horse.
Darcy dismissed the exchange as idle curiosity and rode away.
He left Longbourn with more haste than courtesy and mounted before anyone could follow him.
The demand followed Darcy all the way back to his horse.
Tell me his name.
Had the fellow truly spoken in ignorance, or merely discovered another means of deceit?
Darcy could not decide. Yet until Georgiana herself possessed strength enough to recount every particular without breaking beneath the recollection, he would not expose her pain merely to satisfy a man already capable of every falsehood.
As he rode toward Netherfield, his hands tightened around the reins until the leather cut into his gloves.
He had not brought Georgiana.
For that, at least, he could be grateful.